Reality
by Maelynn Meep
Summary: Wherein the Doctor hears words of encouragement from an interesting point of view and the breaking of the fourth wall is a tightrope walk. "No seriously, could you imagine? Your life a TV show?" One-shot.


**Reality**

_By Maelynn Meep_

That sound. She stilled, freezing in her path. She'd never heard it in person before, just sound clips, background audio from any video they could provide her. It had always stunned her to silence, the sound of something ancient and beautiful making its way towards earth. But in person… she closed her eyes and breathed it in, a stupid grin on her face.

"Dr. Graham."

Her eyes flew open and she was still smiling, uncaring of how he perceived her. "Is he here?"

"In storage room three."

"You mean the cupboard?" She frowned wanly, briskly striding towards the location in question. The sounds had since faded away into nothing, but as she reached her destination a rather disorganized cacophony of bangs reached her ears, as if someone was struggling to get out. Her theory only proved too correct as a man, with the awkwardness of a baby giraffe, fell out of the closet, dragging a few mops and cleaning supplies down with him.

He rolled over on his back, beaming insanely. "Hello."

"Hello." She laughed, leaning towards him and offering a hand. He took it, using her weight to drag himself up.

He stood, dusting himself off, seemingly inspecting the long dark tweed coat for damage. He caught sight of her raised eyebrows. "Just taking this coat out for a spin," He explained. "Can't imagine doing something to it on the first trip." He looked down at himself again and then back at her earnestly. "Do you think this would look good with a vest? Or a fez?"

"Uh…" She took in his appearance. Young, mop of hair, dark clothes and was that a bow tie? "A vest would look good yeah but I think a fez might clash with your… undertaker look."

"Undertaker?"

She gestured to him. "All dark greys. It looks like you just came from a funeral."

He looked down, expression suddenly anything but open, watching his foot kick at the ground softly. "Well…"

Sighing, she berated herself in her head. _Of course—_

"Doctor!" The sergeant greeted, coming towards them, he reached out a hand and offered it to the Doctor. "Good of you to come."

"Always happy to help." Said the Doctor, shaking the hand, smile back on his face.

"And this is Dr. Graham." Said the sergeant, the Doctor immediately taking her hand in both of his and giving it a good shake.

"Well, well, well a doctor. Of what?" He asked giddily.

"History." She replied, standing her ground through the enthusiastic handshake.

"Dr. Graham is UNIT's main expert on you, Doctor." The sergeant clarified.

The Doctor's eyebrows rose. "On me? How much is there to know?"

She smiled. "A lot. And yet not enough."

He grinned at that, clapping his hands together and looking back to the other man. "So where's Kate?"

"Ms. Stewart is in Wales but we've set up a video feed so she can explain the situation."

"Excellent." Said the Doctor, following the sergeant as beckoned, Dr. Graham trailing behind.

As they reached what looked to be an office, the sergeant turned around. "If you could wait a moment?"

The Doctor nodded, casually taking a seat on the bench outside. "Fine." He took out his sonic screwdriver, fiddling with it. The sergeant went in, leaving her alone with the Doctor. She stood there awkwardly for a few moments before sitting down beside him, feeling like a kid waiting outside the principal's office. She almost jumped as he asked, "So what's your first name?" He looked away from the device for a moment, smiling disarmingly.

"May." She answered.

"Well May," He said her name clumsily, as if it was the first time his mouth had formed those syllables together. "You're a historian on me, eh? What's that like?"

She sighed, leaning back against the wall, reeling in the depth of the sea of possible answers. "It's like… reading a never ending story book. With all the pages scattered about in time and space."

His gaze returned to back to the screwdriver. "Pretty messed up book. I shudder to think about the film adaptations."

"Really?" May questioned in surprise. "I think it'd be a hit. If people knew what you've done—"

"They'd run in horror." He said, tone forcibly light.

She shook her head. "No." She said sincerely. "No they wouldn't." A thought came to her. "Besides I think television is better suited for you."

"Television?" The Doctor asked, still not looking back at her. "Rotten old show that'd be."

And suddenly the urge to get her point across, the urge for him to _know _was too strong. "No seriously, could you imagine? Your life a TV show?"

"Hmm…" He replied vaguely, tone distracted.

Before she even knew what she was doing, she hit him lightly on the shoulder, his attention coming back to rest on her as she looked straight ahead. "I'm serious. Um, they'd call it _Doctor What_ or- oh! _Doctor Who_! Title just as mysterious as the man. And… it'd be very old this TV show. Running for a very, very long time because, well, _you_ ran for a very long time and, of course that'd make sense because the actors, they'd change each time you see? Each time you change, a constant, never-ending, never-dying show, never dying _phenomenon_. …Never giving up, cheating death just as you do. Because it _can._ And it runs for such a long time, such a very, very long time that it sits in the heart of the people watching. It'd be a cult classic. Everybody in Britain's seen it because it's been there for so long, just sitting there as they take for granted that every year there'll be a new season because there's _always_ been a new season. Every time. Without fail. It's a constant in a changing world. …And it goes beyond that! It goes far beyond just he UK or Europe, getting attention in America and Australia and the like! Uniting the world together in one simple show, one simple _character_ that they cheer on for years because as the world gets darker, as the violence gets bloodier and the stakes higher, that man in the blue box is still there, giving them hope after all that time. And he deals with his faults and errors and loss, wishing they could just reach through the screen and hug him because he doesn't deserve what he gets and doesn't get what he deserves. And people… and they cry. Every time you change, get a new face they cry— at the end of an era. But they're still hopeful in the promise of the newest face. Because over the years you've taught them that change is sad and beautiful. Same with your companions. They get attached, they wish for romance, friendship, hatred, and when they leave it's almost always as traumatic as you changing. Because, if anything, you've proven to them over the years that these people matter—that _everyone_ matters- and that it's _brilliant_ to care as much as you can for people, despite what people give you in return. It's brilliant to ignore humanity's darkness because their light , _their potential_, is shining far brighter than that."

She laughed, thinking. "And it'd be fun to watch this show, be a fan of this show. With the crazy, absolutely-nutters-to-explain plot that no one understands and blames on it being around so long. With the, I don't know, shaking their fists at the writers' for their stupidity or brilliance - I'd say brilliance - and the speculation of just _'what happens next?'_ And they're surprised and frustrated and hilariously happy and just plain emotional at what just happens and happened because following your life is like that. … There'd be conventions and discussions and literature dedicated to you. People united over social media just in the discussion of what happens to you."

A smirk reached her lips. "Common phrases like "Don't Blink" "Bad Wolf" and "Madman with a Box" being spray-painted on walls. And nobody minds, because they get the joke. But I think… the most important part would be the story. A man, an impossibly lovable, strange and frightening man, dealing with whatever's thrown at him. I mean, every possible part of the human condition is laid bare. Abandonment, self-hatred, courage, fear, faith, love… it's all there, and everybody can see it. And they think, 'if he can do it, so can I.' And that's what they come for. The story. The most amazing, fantastic story ever told." She finished, almost gasping at the sheer weight of her emotions.

Slowly, May looked at the Doctor, who seemed entirely focused on her, on her words. His eyes glimmered sorrowfully. "Well, that's just sad. All that attention over little old me. Meh." He said, gaze resting on the floor again.

She shrugged, staring back at him. "Maybe. … But I'd watch."

He laughed, a mixture of emotions. "If only it was true. A television show."

"You know the theory of multiple dimensions—"

_"Theory? Pah." _He interrupted.

She went on, ignoring him. "So, out there, a million dimensions away, maybe there is a _Doctor Who_."

A more genuine grin met his face. "I'd love to know the details of that. Probably run by the BBC? And the cast?"

She shrugged again, smirking at the thought. "I don't know, you'd be played by… John Smith? No, already over-used. How about Matt? Matt Smith."

The Doctor nodded, smiling. "I like it. There are ten other mes you know. How about… William Hartnell. Proper name." He said, sounding proud.

She scoffed. "Sounds too regal. 'William'. Jon Pertwee. Odd enough."

And the game started. "Patrick Troughton."

"Sylvester McCoy."

"So none of these people have realistic names?" He asked. "Peter Davidson."

"Tom Baker."

"Colin Baker—ah, repeat."

"We'll count it." She replied, uncaring. "Christopher Eccleston."

"Paul McGann." He said, sounding each syllable out.

"David Tennant." She said, name ringing beautifully in her mind, just as the others.

"Eleven." The Doctor finished. "Eleven names for eleven faces. Thank you."

"For what?" May asked.

"For this. I needed to hear that."

"Well your adoring fans are always willing to provide. Always."

As the sergeant came out and led them into the room, she heard the softest murmur in reply. Something that nearly broke her heart.

_"That's what I'm afraid of."_

* * *

**__A/N:** So this fic has proven to me that I can't just write a drabble - it has to be a nearly two thousand word one-shot. Dang it. Anywho, this isn't anything super special, if anything I'd focus on the dialogue because that was my priority (and I actually wrote it first before any of the actions). I wrote it with just the speech in mind, because sometimes I really want the Doctor to hear how much he's inspired people through the show (we'll ignore the fact that he's fictional. ... _or is he?). _If I ran the show and - God forbid - I was writing the last episode of Doctor Who, I'd dent that fourth wall to do a speech like this so fast that William Hartnell would feel it. The speech progressed on a few lines being written at the start of series seven and was mostly filled up at the end of the Power of Three and then I tweaked it a bit after the Angels Take Manhattan because... feels. May is the personification Whovians everywhere. Anyway, I hope you liked it.

**No** **Beta:** _I'm not kidding. Please no questions asking if I have spell check._ Helpful comments on mistakes, as ever, are absolutely appreciated.

**Disclaimer:** I again tried to break in to the Doctor Who offices to steal the rights, but they recognized my face and threatened to take me to the rooftop. All I remember after that is shouting something about feels and openly weeping before ending up back on the street. So no, I don't own anything. It's all BBC and Moffat.


End file.
